The Tale of the Babushka

Babushka.

It's not a word that is in everyone's lexicon.  It was a common word in my household for the scarf my mother always wrapped around my head and tied under my chin before I went outside.  I can remember a drawer full of rayon (or other synthetic 60's material) square scarves in my mother's drawer.  These mostly faded pastel scarves, my mother, with the flick of her wrist, would fold into a square into a perfect triangle and capture my wayward pigtails and floppy bangs.

"You'll get an earache."

Girl with Babushka,
 Istvan Nagy (1873-1937)
Hungary

Anytime I would attempt to defiantly wander into the sunny Chicago spring without the Babushka, my mother would reel me back in with vague descriptions of unknown, potentially life-threatening ailments if I dared wander out of the house without a Babushka.

She almost sounded like the stereotypical "Jewish Mother" if not the Central Missouri "hillbilly" that she was.  No, No.  She learned the Babushka trick from my paternal grandmother who was from Eastern Europe-we-don't-know-exactly-where-maybe-Romania-although-ethnically-Hungarian/German.

And so it is that I now find myself, hiking up the Tom McCall Point Trail in the windy Columbia Gorge or walking my dog in the open terrain of Condon, Oregon, wishing I had one my mom's Babushkas. A Babushka that would wrap me up tight with protective fingers, making the knot under my chin perhaps a bit too snug.  A Babushka that would keep my greying hair from flying wildly and protect my ears from unknown trauma.  A Babushka of love.

My Morning Commute - The Dark

My commuting observations have changed in recent weeks.  When I leave at 6 a.m., and when I’m returning 11 hours, later it is dark.  I can’t see my raptors soaring.  I can’t see the bend of the earth on the treeless horizon.  I can’t see farmers in their fields or the green wheat sprouting up in staggeringly straight rows.  I can only see as far as my headlights will allow.

Moonlight behind the clouds.  Wind turbine not really visible.

This blanket of darkness sometimes feels oppressive and confining.  It is especially nerve-wracking when rain, freezing fog, or other adverse weather conditions are present. I don’t think I’m a fan of the dark.  A whole week had passed before I was home during daylight and realized that the leaves were literally 4 inches deep in the yard.

If I am truthful, however, the dark holds it’s own delights.  The full moon, partially visible, back lighting thin clouds is surprisingly bright.  The blade of the wind turbines flutter in the moon light to an almost disco effect.  Creatures are still present causing my pulse to quicken whenever they materialize in my headlight beam.

When I pass the halfway point in my travels - either to or from Hood River - the rising and setting suns distract me in my rearview mirror.  One evening, a stunning view of Mt. Hood silhouetted against the autumn sunset, forced me to pull off the road and turn around at the Mountain Viewpoint on 206 just to gaze upon it.  There are definitely delights in my dark travels.  Delightful God moments.

My Morning Commute - Harvest Time

young wheat

It’s harvest time for Eastern Oregon wheat growers.  My morning commute is now peppered with huge grain trucks - tandem style - lumbering along Rt 206.  We hear them from our house as well, being only a few blocks from the Mid-Columbia Grain elevators in Condon.

seeded field

The trucks exit 206 at seldom-noticed drives heading into expansive fields of golden wheat.  Empty pick-up trucks wait patiently while their drivers maneuver massive combines that gobble their way across the fields.  It’s exciting.  The culmination of months of work, prayer, and hope.  

I have been fascinated by the wheat this season.  From freshly planted fields, to young, green shafts inching upwards, to maturing stands, to the golden triumphant field just before harvest - watching the stages of wheat production has held my interest. (As an Illini, I am more accustomed to corn.)  I have worried (like that was going to help) when rain was scarce during critical growing periods.  I fretted when an illegal GMO patch of wheat was found in Eastern Oregon and Japan cancelled its wheat contracts.  I cheered as green gave way to gold.  Suddenly the rhythms and the times of wheat farming have become my concern as well.  

It’s harvest time.  The seemingly relaxed pace of farming is now kinetic as farmers focus on “bringing in the sheaves.”  It’s a time to give thanks for the Creator G-d who has given humankind everything for living.

Then God said, ‘Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed, and fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.’  And it was so. Genesis 1:11

wheat nearing harvest

The Morning Commute - Equus caballus

As my car gains speed leaving the confines of Condon, Oregon each morning, I scan the landscape and realize - I really live in The West.  Wide vistas of wheat and treeless land, big sky, wind turbines and horses unfold in front of me.  The West with its ubiquitous symbol of the horse and rider - Native, Latin, or European.  I live here.

The Rietmann - Cook family had us out to their ranch several weekends ago.  Jessica and Frances “fancied” a horseback ride, and with great hospitality and care, Tom, Katie and Benjamin offered to host the event.  They have a number of horses, each with distinct personality traits and behaviors.  Our Portland women were given horses that were manageable and willing.  Tom, mounted on his own beast, led Jess and Frances from field to field as Katie, Tim and I followed them on foot in a general sort of way.

Such vistas from their ranch.  What a sight to see my girls riding horses, already looking comfortable and confident.  Having grown up around horses - neighbors and friends had stables - I love the equus caballus.  My adoration, unfortunately, does not extend to a proficiency in riding, but I was always willing to “mount up” in my younger days.  Sitting on a horse gives one an even more expansive view of the world.  There is indeed something to the idea of the power of horse beneath you and melding your own body and energy into it.  The excursion to the ranch was a grand success topped off with an expansive repast and delightful conversation.

So this is how it is for me. Every morning, during the first hour of my hour-forty-five minute drive, I race past The Rietmann ranch, other wheat fields, turbines, cattle, and horses.  Great beautiful beasts grazing, running, and looking curiously at the funny person who has stopped to take their photograph.  

The morning commute was never like this in the city.

Spiritual Gardening

Roto-tilling in Condon

I’ve done it.  I have finished “putting in” my vegetable garden.  A few weeks ago I borrowed the neighbor’s rototiller ripping up bone dry sod and soil.  At that time, I “laid out” half of the garden in a labyrinth pattern using dried leaves from the elm tree and holly bushes. I even congratulated myself on my “green” approach to creating "the path."

Dried leaf path

In my initial gardening endeavor, I planted peas, sunflowers, marigolds (yes, mixing flowers with vegetables for color) three tomato plants, and dill.  

Then the weather changed.  Cold wind and rain. My path became general ground cover. Not everything we try is a success, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try something new, different, or experimental.  How else can we grow in our talents, in our faith?  Learning #1:  Dried leaves do not necessarily make the best material for a labyrinth path with the winds of Eastern Oregon.

During the rains and COLD, I decided that I would not make a second labyrinth pattern for the garden. For the "right-hand side" of the graden, I planned to plant in rows with some hills for squash and cucumbers.  I sized up the seeds I had purchased, how I could utilize the space best, and decided rows would be okay. Learning #2: You can only do what you can do.

Labyrinth as originally laid out

Today (Sunday, June 2) the sun shone and the temperatures were in the upper 60’s.  After church, visiting Summit Springs Village with Tim, and lunch at the Roundup, I attacked the garden with a fervor to plant.  First I weeded where grass and morning glories were trying to regain a foothold.  Weeding is good spiritual practice.  It reminds us that we must “weed out” things in our lives that are unhealthy, destructive, or overburdensome.  Some weeds are difficult to get out.  We have to dig deep - in the garden or in ourselves. Lesson #3: Weeding is not only necessary, it’s good for us.

Waiting to see what grows

My next gardening task was to remake the labyrinth path so I knew where to plant the rest of my “starts” and seeds.  I tried using the hoe which made a nice trench, but then when I hoed between the rings of the path for planting - well - I soon became confused.  What was the path and what was wax bean row? Learning #4: Wait to see what happens.

Wherever I planted my beets, wax beans, eggplant, and green peppers is where I planted them.  Now I wait. When they sprout and grow, the path will become apparent.  We don’t like to wait.  At least I don’t.  I can be spontaneous, but with much of my life, I want a map, an agenda, an expectation of what happens next. And whatever is to occur, I want it to happen immediately.  Life, as we know, is not that tidy. My labyrinth path will where it will be.  I will walk the path amidst my veggies and flowers knowing that it is the path that G-d has for me now.  Learning #5 G-d not only provides the path for us, G-d walks the path with us.

Morning Commute - Wind Turbines

Turbines looming over canyon walls.

Early in my Condon-Hood River traverses, I fell in love with wind turbines.  These massive whirling beasts that each require something like 14 tractor trailer truckloads to assemble, populate the landscape throughout the high desert of Eastern Oregon and the eastern edge of the Gorge.  

Light snow and fog hug The Six early in March 2013

When viewed at just the correct angle, one can see them lined up in their rows: groupings of 4 or 6 or more.  Viewed at a different angle, the multiple sets of turbines look as if they should be colliding, blades slicing at different tempos.  And then there is the view just out of Wasco, heading towards Condon, where wind turbines sprout before you - row after row - endlessly stretching towards the distant horizon.

As Tim and I moved across the country nearly two years ago, we passed many fields of wind turbines in Kansas, Utah, Wyoming and Eastern Oregon.  But in my daily commute, on my two-lane road, I am close to these giants.  They are a mixture of savvy engineering and surprising simplicity.  So many pinwheels planted amidst the wheat. While I am dwarfed by them in my sedan, I view them as sentinels guarding my path.

Spring sunrise light The Six

Near the beginning of my daily commute towards Hood River, there is a grouping of six turbines that never cease to fascinate me.  Whether they are wrapped in fog or gleaming in early morning sunlight, their movement comforts me.  Their rhythm reminds me of the rhythm of the Universe brought to life when the Wind blew across the waters.

Perhaps this is why, on that rare occasion, when the blades are not revolving, I feel jarred, unsettled, anxious.  Just as God rested on the seventh day, the wind in one of the windiest places on earth, gets to rest. Perhaps that is the lesson for me.  Every so often, I too get to rest from my travels, from my work, from my distractions to be still and know God.

All photos by Maggie Sebastian (on her old IPhone)

The Morning Commute - Phlox

I spotted them a couple of weeks ago as I snaked through the canyon on my way from Condon to work in Hood River.  Phlox.  Pretty purplish-blue phlox, growing wild-as-you-please on the walls of the canyon beside the road.  I had to stop.  I had to take a picture.  The phlox overwhelmed me with a sense of happiness, hope, and contentment.

Wild phlox along on canyon wall on Rt 206.

You see, we had bluish-purple (I am bad with colors) phlox growing below the terraced bit I created in the front of the house in Wheeling, WV.  I never completed the master plan of removing all of the creeping juniper and terracing the whole hill, but I kept dreaming.

The day I "built" my wall  - such as it was - Dad was there.  He was in town for my installation service, and I was very happy for his presence.  My loving father-in-law insisted on "helping" me as I dug, leveled, and built this wall with retaining wall blocks (like I knew what I was doing.)  Unfortunately below our work area was a mass of creeping, ground covering juniper.  When Dad tells the story, he insists I pushed him.  The truth is that all on his own, with one false step, he slid down the hill atop the juniper, bounced off of my Saturn, and hit the pavement.  Standing helplessly, I watched as he fell in that frightening slow-motion-can't-stop-it sort of way.  After the adrenaline rush and with a little TLC, some ice, and banishment from the wall project (except as spectator), Dad was fine.  The incident, however, has taken on legendary status in the family. ("She pushed me." "You fell."  "Yes, after you pushed me." "Dad!" "What?")

A couple of years later, as my terracing project languished, in an uncharacteristic move by Tim, he came home one day with a few pots of phlox.  Tim never gets involved in the gardening.  But, he said, he was at the Kroger, and they were pretty, and, well, he liked the color.  So, I tore out weeds and some of the demonic juniper and planted the phlox.  Over the years it grew, expanding and commanding the space once occupied by unwanted plants.  They were very pretty.

Much like my phlox in WV.

The contentment and happiness I felt when I saw the wild phlox on the way to work a couple of weeks ago, I know is connected to those memories.  What could have been a tragic accident, is now a family tease.  What was once difficult space to manage was transformed by the phlox into beauty.  The commonality between the store bought and wild phlox is a reminder of God's continuing good creation.  I had to stop.  I had to take a picture.  I had to smile for the rest of my drive into work, because phlox is totally awesome.

The Morning Commute

Whenever I tell people in Hood River that I live in Condon, they seem shocked, then quickly recover with a logical explanation from their point of view.

"Oh, so you stay here during the week?"

No.  I drive into work each morning and home each night.  I have a room in Hood River that I rent - just down the street from the hospital - for when I'm on call each Friday night.

"You drive everyday?"

Yes.

"How long of a drive is that?"

A slim one hour forty-five minutes - give or take - for 92 miles.

At this point there is usually some sputtering, some "oh my gosh," and "everyday?" like perhaps I don't remember where I am in time and space.

I explain.

I have lived in large metropolitan areas where an hour forty-five minute commute is not unheard of and this is a lot less stressful.  Plus there's this guy I've been living with for over 33 years that I like to see as much as possible.

While they are still processing, I usually find some reason to excuse myself and walk away.  Yes I know how much gas this takes, and I know that when the weather is bad I'll have to stay in Hood River.  I dragged Tim from St. Louis to New York to West Virginia.  My turn to drive and I LIKE IT.

So I have decided that I will be posting short blogs every so often to talk about the wonders I see from Eastern Oregon into the Columbia Gorge.  Beats the heck out of I170 in St. Louis rush hour any day.  For now,  the view out of my window as I drive.  Ok Ok - I got out of the car to take this shot, but I'm sure you are glad that I stopped to take pictures instead of driving and photographing at the same time in the canyon.